Tuesday

Dover returned to England a very rich man, and Selkirk also did well for himself.

According to one story, Dover took Selkirk to a tavern in Bristol and introduced him to a 60-year-old journalist by the name of Daniel Defoe.

The penniless hack crafted Selkirk's story into his first novel, The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe.

(Defoe also tried to cash in with two sequels, The Farther Adventures of… and The Serious Reflections of Robinson Crusoe; for his part, the real Robinson Crusoe tired of the high life, returned to the high seas, and died off Africa, probably of yellow fever.)

Meanwhile, Dover's success stirred up speculation around the newly-formed South Sea Company.

Ironically, the buccaneering doctor lost much of the money he stole in South America by gambling it in the subsequent South Sea Bubble. (Defoe also lost his shirt in the stock market debacle.)

However, Dover made up his losses by penning a bestseller of his own, a controversial do-it-yourself guide called The Ancient Physician's Legacy to His Country.

In the book, which ran to eight editions plus a French translation, the old buccaneer defended his use of mercury and gave readers the recipe for his famous Dover's Powders, a gout remedy that was still used as a painkiller in Europe well into the 20th century.

"In two or three hours, at farthest, the patient will be perfectly free from pain," the "Ancient Physician" promised.

Which isn't that surprising, considering the key ingredient was large doses of opium.

Men of the world like Dover and Defoe would have been familiar with "The Campden Wonder," a real-life tale of kidnap, murder and witchcraft that captivated their contemporaries and still fascinates true-crime buffs.

The mystery centres on William Harrison, a trusted servant of Sir Baptist Hicks' family ever since the tycoon took over as Campden's lord around 1610.

The family mansion had been destroyed during the Civil War, so Sir Baptist's daughter and heir, Lady Juliana Noel, had the stables converted into a comfortable home called Court House (still inhabited by her descendants).

Harrison lived nearby, possibly in one of the mansion's old banqueting houses, known as the recently-restored east pavilion.

Monday

Dover's critics pointed out that the human body doesn't actually absorb liquid metal when it is swallowed.

One told of a patient who downed 16 pounds of mercury and recovered all but one and a half ounces of it… from his faeces:

"It is doubtless the case of many, who thinking the remedy is working miracles in the blood, might find it in their breeches," he said, adding:

"I have heard a pleasant story of a mercurial lady, who in Dancing at a Public Assembly, happened to let go some particles of the quicksilver she had taken in the morning; which, shining on the floor in the midst of so great an illumination like so many brilliants, there were several stooping down to take them up; but finding themselves deceived, it affected matter for much laughter among the gentlemen, and blushing amongst the ladies, especially she that was most concerned; for the cry went through the room, that some lady had scattered her diamonds."

Ridiculed by his peers—and possibly suffering an acute midlife crisis—Dover risked everything he had in his late forties to become a privateer: a legalised pirate on a mission to steal from the old enemy, Spain.

In 1708, Dover and his colleagues backed an expedition to the South Seas--the Pacific Ocean off the coast of South America. Not only did the doctor invest in the adventure, he also helped lead it, even though he had no nautical training.

With "Captain" Dover leading the charge, the English sacked Ecuador's main port, Guayaquil. Between their looting and pillaging, the buccaneers slept in the local churches, disregarding the stench of the scores of plague victims recently buried beneath the floorboards.

Wisely, Dover stopped his men from frisking the corpses for valuables.

Even so, more than half the crew—180 men—fell ill in a catastrophic outbreak that threatened the expedition. Somehow, though, Dover's unconventional doctoring saved the venture: only eight men died.

One survivor was a Scottish sailor named Alexander Selkirk.

Earlier that year, the expedition had stopped at a seemingly deserted island hundreds of miles off the coast for some much needed R&R before attacking the mainland.

Dover had volunteered to reconnoitre the island, and to his amazement, he found "a man clothed in goat skins, who seemed wilder than the original owners of his apparel".

Selkirk had been marooned on the island for nearly four and a half years after quarrelling with the captain of another ship (which ship later sank off Peru, killing all but a few survivors who were then locked up by the Spanish in Lima).

Dover's navigator happened to know Selkirk and vouched for his skills. With the Scotsman on board, the privateers raided ports and captured galleons from Ecuador to California, reaping a profit of £170,000—or nearly £12 million today.

Sunday

The Cotswolds are mostly associated with Aga sagas and bonkbusters today, but Campden's writerly pedigree goes back much further, encompassing classic works of English literature and Nobel-calibre authors.

Bizarrely, most guidebooks (and the tourist office) fail to capitalise on these artistic connections.

If they mention them at all, they gloss over Campden's links to The Canterbury Tales (especially the X-rated film adaptation)… or the fact that Robert Dover's grandson rescued the real-life Robinson Crusoe… or that a Campden play put the Bs into the BBC… or that the area inspired TS Eliot to write a masterpiece of the 20th century (and indulge in a rare moment of passion)… or that Graham Greene kick-started his career in Campden (while lusting after American girls at a local pub)… or that Salman Rushdie supposedly took refuge in town, hiding out from the Ayatollah.

In the absence of any alternative, I offer my own literary ramble, entitled "Murderers, Castaways and Copulating Flies"…

Had it not been for the grandson of the Cotswold Olimpicks' founder, for instance, Robinson Crusoe may never have been written.

Thomas Dover was a doctor-turned-buccaneer who makes modern adventurers—let alone celebrities—seem stupefyingly dull by comparison.

Born around 1660 and based in Bristol, he became known as "The Quicksilver Doctor" after his favourite remedy.

Mercury had been used as a medicine for centuries, and many physicians used to prescribe powders made from mercury salts.

But "The Quicksilver Doctor" scandalised his peers by dishing out crude mercury, telling patients to drink massive amounts of it straight up, claiming that the liquid metal would cure everything from asthma to elephantiasis.

In cases of appendicitis, for instance, he prescribed downing a pound and a half of the slippery stuff.

Thanks partly to him, mercury was as common in British households as tobacco—and probably just as healthy. Even with the relatively limited medical knowledge of the day, many doctors suspected that mercury could be toxic, arguing that Dover's cure-all benefited only nurses and gravediggers.

In one notorious case, Dover used mercury to treat the top tragic actor of his day, Barton Booth. The doctor promised that it would not only prevent him from suffering a relapse of fever, "but would also effectually cure him of all his complaints".

Sure enough, Booth died a week later. A post-mortem found his intestines and rectum blackened and lined with mercury.

Another of Dover's patients died after treatment for syphilis.

"At first he improved but later the patient had a violent dysentery which made an end to all his complaints, and his life also: To the great disappointment of all parties," one wit reported.

Wednesday

"They took it serious, y'see. Tough as hell—all of 'em were, in those days," an Old Campdonian tells me.

Shin kicking had all but disappeared by the time Fred Coldicott was born in 1910, but he remembers playing just for fun as a boy: one of the kids in his gang, Wilfred "Guthram" Plested, was the nephew of the backswords champ who lost an eye and killed a man in the fatal bout held during the last years of Dover's Games.

In their flat caps, pullovers, long shorts and socks, the kids would play games like leapfrog, noughts and crosses (tic-tac-toe)… and shin kicking.

"We were some ignorant little b's in those days. We were little brutes. It was nothing to have a good stand-up fight. You never see that nowadays, do ya? You'd run home with a bloody nose to your father, and he'd say, 'Serves ya damn right, go back and give 'im another go, and give 'im a nose bleed!' I got no sympathy from dad. It was a funny old world."

Outsiders came away with much the same impression.

"There is no imbecility nor barbarity that human beings will not practise and even exalt, so long as it be sanctified by custom," Massingham wrote of shin kicking on Dover's Hill.

"Only a traditionalist or a good old Englander could regret the blessed silence and solitude that have come in the wake of the turbulent ways of men."

Monday

Back in the Cotswolds, shin kicking—and backswording—continued long after Dover's Games came to an end.

One famous venue was Cooper's Hill Wake: when locals weren't chasing cheeses, they were kicking shins.

As one critic recalled: "The wrestling was not a pleasant spectacle, despite its ardent admirers and votaries… I have seen stalwart fellows, with sinew and tendon of iron, struggle fiercely, not to say ferociously for the mastery. It was surprising how human limbs could be strained and kicked without the sinews cracking and the bones breaking."

One old gamester and past champion of Cooper's Hill blamed his crippled leg on "The follies o' my youth. If I had my days to go over agen, I'd never stond up to ha' my legs kicked to pieces. I ha' learned this, thot our blessed Meeker nivver made our precious limbs to be kicked at vor other volks' amusement."

Another old-timer with a thick West Country accent described similar injuries.

"How thoy did maul one another. All of a zudden I yurd summut snop loike a stick. One on um fell down like a hos, ond thur waur a cry thot his leg waur bro-ock, ond a vot lot they cared about it".

His own father had given up backsword fighting and become a Christian after a particularly vicious beating.

"All those old wakes, develrus wonderments, ond Sayton's abominations be all done away wi," he concluded, "and in the main we ha to thank the Methodies for't."

﻿Shin kicking and backswording finally died out by the early 1900s.
Travel writer H.J. Massingham collected some of the stories about the bad old days for his book, Wold Without End, in 1931.

Locals told him about an old stonebreaker in the Vale of Evesham whose shins looked like corrugated iron from his wounds back when "Broddy fowt Kyanden" (Broadway fought Campden) and how the captain of the Campden team would "thrape" the soft parts of his shins with a coal hammer every night at The Eight Bells pub; other men used wooden planks to deaden the nerves in their legs or vinegar as an astringent to keep the skin from splitting.